


A Neighborly Wager

by redpenny



Series: 'A Neighborly...' Series [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Body Image, Body Worship, Chubby Kink, Chubby Stiles Stilinski, Established Relationship, Firefighter Derek Hale, M/M, Teasing, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21566302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpenny/pseuds/redpenny
Summary: "Dude, you can't seriously think I weigh a whole hundred pounds more than you.""Well..." Derek glances down at his stomach. "You haven't stepped on the scale in a while, have you?""You think I can't step on a scale?""I don't know. Can you?"
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: 'A Neighborly...' Series [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1548832
Comments: 10
Kudos: 330





	A Neighborly Wager

**Author's Note:**

> I swear, the first story was supposed to be a one-shot. Don't even ask where this came from.
> 
> No sex in this one, but probably a bit kinkier as far as weight stuff goes.

Stiles lets himself into Derek's apartment at five minutes to midnight and Derek sets his book down with surprise. Stiles had been going out with friends and he hadn't expected to see him tonight. 

Before Derek can ask why he's here, he offers a muttered, "Too many stairs," on the way to Derek's bedroom.

Derek wanders after him and finds his boyfriend flopped on his back on the bed, fully clothed.

He raises an eyebrow. "You could have taken off your shoes."

Stiles groans. "Do I look like I can reach?"

Derek rolls his eyes as he walks over to him. Stiles looks his usual amount of chubby. Maybe his belly is a bit rounder than usual, but it's hard to tell. But, even though a generous portion of his extra weight has settled on his middle, Derek's never seen him have a problem bending over it to tie or untie his shoes.

"You look like you're being lazy," Derek tells him. He pats his belly before reaching for his shoes.

Stiles grabs for his stomach with a pained groan. "Fuck, man, don't do that."

"Eat too much?"

"Don't talk about food, either," Stiles says. "I'm never eating again."

Derek tugs off his left shoe. "That sounds like a rather extreme diet."

With more effort than it should require, Stiles lifts himself up on his elbows to peer down at him over his belly.

"You think I need a diet?" 

"You know I don't."

Stiles eyes him skeptically for a moment and then, with a grumpy noise, drops back down onto the bed. He winces and cradles his stomach again.

Derek takes off his second shoe and pulls off his socks.

Then he reaches under Stiles's belly for the button of his jeans. He possesses quite a wide variety of sizes in all his clothes, and they're all stuff haphazardly into his dresser drawers. It's not uncommon for him to distractedly grab an older size, but, luckily, he seems to be wearing his bigger jeans tonight, the ones he'd bought after the holidays. So, even with an utter lack of cooperation on Stiles's part, Derek doesn't have too hard a time getting them off him.

His t-shirt tonight might be an older one, though, with the way it's riding up his lower belly. Or maybe he's just too bloated to fit into his usual XXL.

At least he likes to sleep with a shirt on, so Derek doesn't have to attempt to get it off.

"You going to get under the covers?" he asks.

"Not if it requires moving."

"You'll get cold," Derek warns him. He flicks off the lights and strips off his own clothes on the way back to the bed.

"I'm insulated."

Derek feels his lips quirk up. "You are."

He examines Stiles's dark profile the streetlight coming in through the blinds. A profile which is currently bearing more than a little resemblance to a beached whale.

"So," he teases as he crawls on top of the covers next to him. "Couldn't make it all the way up to the seventh floor tonight?"

He kisses a round cheek and Stiles groans. "Barely made it here, man. If you hadn't given me a key, I would've had to sleep on the streets."

"You mean, if you hadn't _stolen_ a key," Derek corrects.

"Semantics." Stiles waves a dismissive hand, and then winces and cradles his belly again.

Earlier this month, Derek had called in a few favors to switch his shifts so he would take Stiles out for Valentine's Day. Stiles, halfway through an after-dessert box of chocolates, had warned him that this meant that Derek was his boyfriend now.

It was around that time that Derek's spare key had mysteriously disappeared.

"I'm glad you couldn't make it up the stairs," Derek confesses to him now.

Stiles eyes him grumpily, still cradling his stomach. "Glad someone's enjoying this."

"No, I mean," Derek tries again, laying a hand over the bloated mound of Stiles's belly. "I like having you here."

Stiles snatches his wrist. "Careful, dude. I'm delicate."

"I can see," Derek says. "I'll be gentle. I'll make you feel better."

Stiles releases his hand with such obvious mistrust that Derek can't help but smile as he runs a hand very carefully over top his belly. Even as lightly as he's touching it, he can tell how firm it is underneath the usual padding.

Stiles eats a lot. He snacks more than someone who still thinks he's going to lose this year's holiday weight probably should. But he usually doesn't eat a lot all at once.

"What did you eat tonight?" Derek asks. 

Stiles groans. "Pie eating contest. I don't want to talk about it."

" _Pie eating contest_?" Derek repeats, incredulous, stilling his hand on his full belly. "Where did you find a pie-eating contest at eleven o'clock on a Friday night?"

"Dude, don't worry about it," Stiles mutters. "I didn't even win."

"What a shame."

"Well, the prize was another pie. So maybe it's for the best."

"Maybe." Derek shakes his head, and then resumes his belly rub. He pushes up Stiles's snug t-shirt so he can get to the warm skin underneath.

Stiles makes a sound that isn't quite discomfort, and Derek takes it as encouragement to rub with just a little more pressure.

After a moment, Stiles asks, "Still like my fat gut like this?"

"I do," Derek says honestly. Maybe he does prefer Stiles's middle when it's softer and Stiles lets him squeeze the plump rolls. But, despite his current resemblance to a beached whale, Stiles is still incredibly sexy like this.

"Well, don't get too excited, you kinky fucker," Stiles warns him, as if reading his mind. "I'm too fat for sex."

Derek smiles, amused. "You weren't too fat for sex this morning."

"Well, I'm fatter now."

Derek chuckles and continues rubbing his belly. "I think that's just the pie. How many slices did you eat?"

"Dude, you don't count in _slices_ in a pie-eating competition," Stiles says. "And we're not talking about pie right now. Or ever again."

"Right. I forgot."

After a moment in which Derek continues his gentle ministrations, Stiles asks, "Do you think I'm fatter than when we met?"

Derek thinks about it. They'd first gotten together on Christmas Eve. While Stiles doesn't seem particularly heavier two months later, he's chubby enough that a few pounds probably wouldn't be noticeable. Even to someone as intimately familiar with the dimensions of his body as Derek is.

"I don't know."

"Hmph." Stiles's soft chin folds into two plump ones as he looks down at himself. "I don't think I've lost the holiday weight yet, though."

"Probably not." Derek chuckles. "But you could gain another hundred pounds and you still wouldn't be too fat for sex, you know."

"Jesus, dude, I'd be fucking huge. How would you even find my — wait." He turns to him sharply. "Did you say _another_?"

Derek nods as he gentles his touch over his firmer, more bloated upper belly.

"Are we back to you thinking I've got a hundred pounds on you?" Stiles demands.

"I think you might."

Stiles huffs indignantly, but Derek knows he hasn't stepped on a scale in quite a while. He also gets the impression that he'd packed on quite a bit of extra weight shortly before they met. He doesn't have that many clothes that fit him well and he gets surprised by his size. He hadn't known that his love handles had spread around to his back, or that he had stretch marks under his belly button, or that that he'd have to hold up his belly if he wanted a blowjob when he was standing up.

"There's no way," Stiles insists.

"Okay."

"Dude, you can't seriously think I weigh a whole hundred pounds more than you."

"Well..." Derek glances down at his stomach. "You haven't stepped on the scale in a while, have you?"

"You think I can't step on a scale?"

"I don't know. Can you?"

Stiles's eyes narrow. "Want to make this interesting?"

The next morning, Derek watches Stiles toe his bathroom scale on the tile floor, eyeing it mistrustfully.

"You don't have to do this," Derek tells him.

It earns him a cranky glare. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? I don't step on the scale, you don't lose the bet, and you get out of Marvel marathon night? I don't think so, man."

"Fine." Derek spreads his arms in resignation, almost hitting the walls of the narrow bathroom. "Then would you just get on already? I'd like to have breakfast sometime before noon. Not all of us ate twenty pies last night."

"Dude, don't you think I would have won more than a stomach-ache if I'd been able to eat twenty?" Stiles turns back to the scale and nudges it again with his toe, like he thinks it's a wild animal not to be woken up.

"It's not going to bite, Stiles." Derek leans against the sink. "Unless _you're_ afraid _you're_ going to have to go to Isaac's reading instead."

"You're delusional, old man," Stiles snaps and finally steps on the scale.

After waiting an impatient moment, Derek asks, "So, what's the verdict?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Your scale's broken." Stiles steps off of it.

Derek folds his arms over his chest. "It's not broken."

"Then it's out of batteries or something. I don't know. Do I look like the scale repair guy?"

Derek sighs.

A minute later, he returns from the kitchen with a two AA's. Stiles pops them in the back and steps back on.

"Nope. Still broken."

Derek, not putting it past him for this to be a ruse to keep from admitting he's lost the bet, steps across the small bathroom before Stiles can get off the scale. He slides an arm around the back of Stiles's chubby waist so he can get squeeze in close enough to peer over his shoulder.

"Suck this in." Derek pokes his belly. No longer bloated with pie, it's resumed its usual plush dimensions under his t-shirt.

"Suck yourself in," Stiles mutters grumpily, but does.

"Huh," Derek says when he catches sight of the 'ERR'.

"Yeah, _huh_."

"Let me try."

"Whatever. Knock yourself out," Stiles says, as he waves a hand and almost knocks Derek out himself.

Derek sighs and then has to step all the way into the hallway so Stiles can get out of the way.

Neither the bathroom nor, unfortunately, the shower are big enough for two full-grown adults of any size to comfortably fit. But, between Derek's shoulders and Stiles's waistline, the two of them in here probably exceed zoning regulations on their own.

Honestly, the only good thing about living in this building is the rent.

And, well, Stiles.

Derek probably would have put Stiles first if he hadn't kept him up half the night negotiating for terms for this bet. And then made him get up and fetch paper and a pen and proceeded to dictate them to him in very unnecessary legalese.

If Stiles wins, they have to go to MCU night at the local theater. In costume. Derek has to wear Captain America spandex, even though Stiles gets to go as 'beefy' Bucky in jeans. 

There isn't much about Stiles that is 'beefy' and Derek had thought Stiles would make a better Tony Stark, anyways. But when he'd mentioned it, he'd received a twenty-minute lecture that had concluded with, "And I'd better not be dating a Stony shipper."

If Derek wins, all Stiles has to do is go to Isaac's poetry reading next week and not talk through any of it.

Derek's pretty sure those terms aren't exactly even, but it had been 3AM and he'd just wanted to go to sleep.

Derek runs a hand through his tired hair and then, even before he moves to get on the scale, he spots the problem.

"This scale isn't going to work."

"No, shit. I told you it's broken."

"No." He turns back to where Stiles is leaning in the doorway. "It has a weight limit."

"Yeah, dude, I think that's pretty standard."

"But the limit's 250."

"So?"

"So... it's not going to work for you," Derek says. Stiles is still looking at him blankly. "Wait. You don't actually think you weigh under 250, do you?"

Brown eyes widen. "Dude, you think I weigh _over_ 250 pounds?"

"If I didn't, why would I bet that you weighed a hundred more than me?" Derek stares at him, incredulous. "I know I'm not the bulkiest guy at the gym, but, come on, you can't think I weigh less than 150."

Stiles looks him up and down.

"Stiles." Derek sighs. "Did you even _look_ at the waist size on the pants you just bought?"

Stiles juts his chubby chin out stubbornly. "The last time I weighed myself I was 207."

"And how long ago was that?"

"Not _that_ long." He bristles. "Dude, just step on. It'll show error for you, too."

It doesn't.

"Holy shit." Stiles squishes up next to him. "Did you know you weighed that much?"

"Uh. Yes?" Derek is the one who actually owns a scale, after all. "It's usually around there."

"But." Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times. "You think I weigh _three hundred pounds_?"

Derek glances down at the 185.5 on the scale. "You're rounding up a bit."

"You bet 100 _or more_!"

Derek shrugs. That's not his fault. He'd wanted what he'd thought was a very reasonable 100 plus/minus 10 — but Stiles had worn him down to over/under terms sometime between the second and third round of negotiations.

He watches Stiles stride back to the bathroom mirror. Even though he must see the same chubby cheeks rounding out his face and heavy stomach rounding out his t-shirt that Derek does, his indignation transforms into a decisive smugness.

"Well. At least it'll be an easy win for me."

Derek reminds him, "You can't win if you can't get the scale to work."

Two hours later, Derek is cursing his two-hours-younger self for not realizing that there was no way Stiles Stilinski would let the challenge go.

There aren't many things that could get Derek to brave a rare California rainstorm just to join the crowds in the local big-box store, but apparently getting his overweight boyfriend on a scale is one of them.

"You know." Stiles runs a hand through the messy, wet spikes of his hair as they make their way through a crowded aisle. "It's probably going to be 251 and you'll regret making a big deal out of all of this."

Derek refrains from pointing out _he_ wasn't the one who'd insisted this errand couldn't wait until it wasn't raining or peak Saturday shopping hours.

Stiles has at least been the one to pay the greater price for it. His old rain jacket hadn't fit over his tummy — " _Well, how was I supposed to know? It's not like I've worn it in a year_ " — and his hoodie is all but soaked through, his round cheeks are still flushed from the dash from the far end of the crowded parking lot.

Well, dash is a generous term. Stiles only has to stop and catch his breath once on the way up to his seventh-floor apartment these days, but he's still pretty out of shape.

It's not as if Derek has ever minded that. Stiles might get tired a little quickly in bed, but Derek is fit enough for the both of them. And, honestly, even if Derek wasn't, Stiles is so great at sex — he has an incredible body and he's so fucking fun in bed — that Derek still doesn't think he'd care.

And he hadn't expected anything different, anyways. Stiles isn't a beefy kind of overweight, not like some of Derek's fellow firefighters. He's soft and heavy and might have a great body, but he does look just as out of shape as he is.

There are two scales out for demonstration, and one of them has a weight limit that will work for Stiles. Derek suggests he just step on it now and save them the hassle of waiting in line to buy one.

Stiles is appalled at the suggestion, though. Never mind that no one else is in the aisle to see the number, one apparently doesn't weigh oneself in _public_.

And then he's even more appalled when Derek picks out a scale that maxes out at 400 pounds.

He makes them buy one that maxes at 300, even though it costs fifteen dollars more and is covered in pink flowers.

It's a matter of pride, apparently.

They add the cost of the scale to the wager.

Back at his apartment, as Stiles strips off his water-soaked hoodie and Derek puts batteries in the new scale, he finds himself hoping that a number somewhere in the narrow margin of 285.5 and 299 pounds will show up on it.

It's the only way he can avoid both dressing up in spandex and having to brave the rain and crowds to buy yet another scale.

Once Stiles gets himself untangled from his hoodie, he tosses his flannel aside, too, and Derek gets distracted from setting up the scale by the sight of his boyfriend's body being uncovered as he tugs his t-shirt over his head.

Stiles tends to undress single-mindedly, without any finesse. The task of getting his clothes around the pudgy curves of his body seems to make him forget to be self-conscious of his audience. He wiggles around to get his flannel off his shoulders, sucks his belly in to tug his t-shirt off, and then again to get his second-biggest pair of jeans unbuttoned. He hops to get them around his bottom and thighs and doesn't seem to notice the way his stomach bounces, or care how many rolls it folds into when he bends over.

Derek notices, though. And so it takes him a moment to remember that Stiles doesn't tend to get naked unless there's something in it for him.

It takes him another moment to realize what it is.

"You're taking off your clothes," Derek accuses him.

Stiles finishes kicking off his jeans. "Why are you complaining? You're the one always trying to get me naked."

"You're trying to get a lower number."

"It's not cheating." Stiles shoves the messy pile of his clothes to the side of the room. "No one weighs themselves in jeans."

"Fine." Derek snaps the battery compartment on the scale shut and stands up from the bed, reaching for his own shirt.

"Hey," Stiles protests. "You can leave _your_ clothes on."

"You just said—"

"I deserve an advantage. Do you know how many pies I ate last night?"

"How many?"

Stiles frowns. "I told you, I don't want to talk about it."

Derek holds up the notepad on the dresser that holds their terms and signatures. "You getting a handicap wasn't in the rules."

Stiles gives him a sour look.

Derek decides to leave his boxer briefs on since Stiles has, and then he steps onto the pink-flowered scale.

"184 on this one," he tells him. He doesn't step off until Stiles comes over to verify with an annoyed look on his face.

"You lost weight."

Derek shrugs. "Different scales. The rules say we have to—"

"I know, I know, use the same scale. Fine," he says. And Derek steps off.

Stiles approaches the scale with such a deeply suspicious look on his face that Derek is about to tell him again that he doesn't have to do this, they can forget it, but then he steps on.

For a scale that accommodates 300 pounds, it's not really built to accommodate the proportions of someone nearing that limit. Stiles leans over his tummy, and then has to push it in with one hand to see.

A moment passes.

Then another.

Coming from Stiles, the silence feels ominous. Derek steps in to take a look at the verdict.

It's not ERR, at least. It's not even that bad.

Stiles still hasn't said anything, though. Derek reaches up to stroke a hand down his soft back.

"You thought it would be less," Derek says quietly.

"I mean, I was kinda hoping the other scale really was broken," Stiles confesses.

Derek settles his hand on the roll pushing over his waistband. He'd known Stiles hadn't been prepared for the number, but he'd expected indignation. Not this quiet upset. He offers, "You won the bet."

Stiles snorts. "Yeah, by two whole pounds." 

He then seems to notice the full-length mirror on the other side of him for the first time.

"I was also kind of hoping you weren't serious about thinking I had a hundred pounds on you. But I really do, don't I?" He straightens up and winces at his reflection. "Shit. _282 pounds_. Subtract the pies and it's still really fucking close."

Stiles is sideways in the mirror. The angle highlights the roundness of his stomach, and the heaviness that makes it dip over the waistband of his boxer briefs.

He steps off the scale to examine his reflection head-on. He pokes the fattest part of his belly, finger sinking into the puffy flesh around his belly button and then wrinkles his nose unhappily.

Derek settles his hands on the swell of his sides, and examines their reflections for a moment. His blue-green eyes meet brown eyes in the reflection. Stiles's brown hair is still wet from the rain and his own black hair has enough gel that it doesn't matter. His high cheekbones highlight the roundness of Stiles's cheeks. The scruff on his own sharp jaw emphasizes the softness on Stiles's.

And then, the way Stiles's extra 98 pounds of pale, plush curves all but hide Derek's body behind him.

Normally, Derek would love to look at the contrast between their bodies all day — or at least until Stiles got squirmy and self-conscious. But right now, he decides he's tired of sharing Stiles with his mirror.

"C'mere." He tightens his grip on Stiles's hips, nudging him around. 

Stiles blinks at him, as if confused to find Derek there. He glances down at the top of his belly and then back up. "Dude, that 207 was senior year. I thought that was fat. No, that _was_ fat. I had a gut and a body no one wants to see on the beach —"

"Stiles," Derek tries to interrupt.

"— and that was only two years ago!" Stiles throws up his arms.

"Stiles."

"Do you have any idea how much weight I've gained since then?"

"I am capable of basic math." He pulls Stiles closer, warm belly bumping against him "You've gotten heavy. Who cares?"

"Who cares?" Stiles repeats, incredulous. " _Who cares_? Who wouldn't—"

Derek interrupts him with a kiss. When Stiles opens his mouth to protest, Derek just bunches a hand in his damp hair and deepens the kiss.

He keeps a firm grip on Stiles's hip and Stiles finally relaxes. Derek feels hands slip around his neck, tugging him closer.

They make it to the bed, and then make out for a while, slow kisses and lazy, comfortable touches to the patter of rain outside the window.

Stiles is propped on one arm, bending down to meet his lips. His chubby thigh is slung over Derek's hips and he's idly tracing Derek's abs. His own belly is a warm and comfortable push against Derek's side.

"Fucking love your body, Stiles," Derek murmurs, rubbing down a chubby thigh.

"Is this where you try to make calling me fat into a compliment?" Stiles asks dryly.

"I don't know. Maybe." Derek squeezes the plump flesh over the back of his thigh and looks up at him earnestly. "You _are_ pretty chubby here."

Stiles snorts, shaking his head. "It really doesn't bother you, does it?"

"What?"

"Having a 282-pound boyfriend?"

"Well." Derek feels his lips quirk up. "It might take some getting used to. I was hoping for a 284-pound one."


End file.
